Fall
by Tenebrae Erebus
Summary: The Twin Towers. They watched them be hit. They watched them fall. And America fell with them. The fateful day the young country was brought to his knees and the blood seeped into the carpet and blond hair was stained red. Hospital rooms. Sunflowers. Blood and tears. The fated day of nine eleven has changed America. And he will never be the same again.


It started as a regular conference day.

He woke up late, scrambled to take a shower, got dressed and sped off to the UN building, stopping by McDonald's to pick up his usual amount of burgers. He had _felt _something was wrong that day. He hadn't consciously acknowledged it, no, it was more of a subconscious thing. He felt it in his bones and it flooded through his body, an uncanny, heavy sense of foreboding. He didn't notice at all. Not until he looked back on it a few years later did he realize that he _knew _it was coming. He pulled up at the UN building, that silly smile slapped on his face as usual as he burst into the meeting room mere moments before Germany was about to call the meeting to order.

"THE HERO HAS ARRIVED!" He boomed flinging the doors open excitedly. He didn't acknowledge the groans that came from several of the other nations, instead opting to shove a burger into his mouth and take his seat at the head of the table opposite to Germany.

"Bloody hell America, be _quiet _would you?" England complained, giving the American an agitated glare. America grinned his shit eating grin and shook his head.

"No way yo,we've gotta do _something _during these meetings don't we?" America asked in response. He shoved another burger in his mouth, much to the other's disdain and Germany rose to officially start the meeting. It was eight a.m. when the meeting started. They always insisted on an early start and a late end to make up for their goofing off, which in reality just resulted in more time to goof off, fight and cause trouble. At eight forty a.m. America felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Something was wrong. Something was going to happen. He could feel it. In that moment, he knew his states could feel it to. The entirety of the United States of America was on edge, waiting for something terrible to happen.

Alfred rose to chatter about his heroes at exactly eight forty five a.m. The sense of foreboding was becoming more and more prominent. The way his voice cracked when he tried speaking. His palms were sweaty. His hands shook. The other countries were looking at him curiously, though none of them bothered to ask what was wrong. No, they'd see in exactly thirty seconds.

_30..._

_29..._

Alfred gripped the edge of the table to prevent his hands from trembling so violently, as curling his hands into fists didn't stop it. His whole _body _was shaking, tremors rippling through him, _tearing _through him. _God_, why was he so nervous? What the _hell _could be _so bad _to have him reduced to this shaking, nervous mess in front of the countries of the world?

_28..._

_27..._

His breathing was getting heavy. He didn't understand why. Why did it take so much effort to breathe? _Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. _He was stumbling over his words now, his eyes were wide, double their usual size. His pupils were dilated, he knew that much. He gasped for breath in between his words. What was going on?

_26..._

_25..._

He was nearly incoherent. England wondered what was wrong with the nation. He had never seen him like this before. Not in the nations four hundred years of existence, no. Not as a child. Not as a teenager and most _definitely _not as an adult. Not while he stood on top of the world like he did now. England frowned.

_24..._

The nation was pale. His usually tanned skin was almost sheet white and he obviously struggled to speak.

_23..._

You could here his breathing from the other side of the room. Thick pants, labored heaves.

_22..._

He struggled to stand. Anybody could see how tightly he gripped the table, how much he leaned on it. It was like his lifeline. What for? They asked.

_21..._

His grip on the table tightened. They were watching him. What was so perturbing about that? He loved the spotlight. He loved all eyes on him. Didn't he?

_20..._

_19..._

_18..._

His knuckles were white. His face was white. His eyes were bigger than ever. A sweat had broken out across his forehead. Nobody had stepped up to ask what was wrong.

_17..._

_Something was going to happen! _And he couldn't figure it out. Damn it, why couldn't he figure it out?!

_16..._

Tightening his grip on the table was a bad idea. The wood splintered in his grip, the sound like thunder in the meeting room. Everything was silent.

_15..._

He nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Alfred, are you okay?" England asked. Concern shown in green eyes as they met terrified blue ones. England tightened his grip on Alfred's shoulders.

_14..._

"Alfred, what's going on?" England asked shaking the younger nation. America trembled underneath his hands and cast his gaze to the window. If possible, he only blanched more.

_13..._

The other countries turned to see what he was looking at.

_12..._

He could see the plane. It was flying _far_ to low. What the hell was the pilot thinking?

_11..._

Shocked cries echoed throughout the meeting room as the others realized what was going on. They gathered around the window, pressing up against the glass like children at the zoo to see the animals, only to see a tragedy unfold before their eyes.

_10..._

To him it happened in slow motion. To the rest of the world it was a flash.

_9..._

England turned to look at him, fear in his eyes. America was to transfixed by the sight before him to notice.

_8..._

This couldn't be happening.

_7..._

No way.

_6..._

He didn't realize he was holding his breath.

_5..._

"No." He mouthed. He couldn't bring himself to make any noise, let alone manipulate his vocal chords. England was paralyzed, standing next to him, gazing at the plane that was going to crash.

_4..._

"No..." It was a hoarse whisper, quieter than Canada. It grazed past his lips but fell on deaf ears. To quiet. The plane...

_3..._

The North Tower. There was no avoiding it. No. It was like all of New York had stopped to watch the terrible spectacle. Or it might just have been him. The constant buzz of traffic stopped. The pedestrians seemed to freeze. Everybody's eyes were turned to the twin towers.

_2..._

"No!" He was at his usual tone of voice, loud enough for the other countries to turn and look at him fearfully before returning to the sight in front of them.

_1..._

He didn't move from his spot, despite how much he wanted to _get the hell out of_ _there_ and not watch one of his twins go up in flames. No, that was wrong. He was the hero. He needed to _be _there to help save his people. But fate didn't have it that way.

_0..._

There was a gurgle. There was a thud. It took a moment for anybody to register what had happened. To the tower and to America.

"ALFRED!" England managed. He collapsed next to the young nation, the blood from America's slit throat pooling on the carpet, staining Arthur's knees as Alfred's body fell into a series of jerks and spasms. Nations screamed, both at the sight of the plane flying into the Northern Tower and at the sight of Alfred, lying in a fastly growing pool of his own blood. It soaked the carpeting and the countries eyes had rolled back into his head. It was terrifying. One of the most powerful countries in the world was reduced to a bleeding, twitching mess on the floor of the United Nations building.

"Mein Gott..."

"Oh my god! Is he like, going to like, die?!"

"Ve~ Germany what's going on?!"

"America-kun!" The countries had clustered around him, the room having fallen into a scene of panic and chaos. Nations were screaming, Italy was crying, Germany was trying to pry Italy off of him so that he could figure out how to treat America until they got to the hospital.

"Somebody call nine-"

"No. That will not do. They are all too busy with the crash into the tower. The nearest hospital is only two blocks away. I will carry Amerika, da?" Russia stated. Nobody dared to challenge him as he scooped up the smaller country. Blood stained his suit and he easily tossed his scarf over his shoulder as he quickly moved downstairs. The others followed hot on his heels, winding through the crowd of people talking on their phones frantically, mostly about the collision that took place hundreds of feet above their heads. Some were sobbing. It was likely that they had family members in there. Nobody payed attention to the group of rushing people, carrying a bleeding man and when they burst into the hospital they were greeted by chaos and panic. People flew around the room in a flurry of panic and madness, there were paramedics rushing out to start what would be a long route of burned and near fatally injured people. Russia forced his way through the crowd, carrying the bleeding American to the desk.

"Sir, I'm sorry we can't-" The lady at the desk started.

"Listen here, if you look up Alfred Franklin Jones on that computer with the birth date of July fourth on that little computer of yours you will see how important this is." England growled. The lady stared at him before following instructions, finding his patient information and paling considerably.

"Oh my god." She muttered. Her hand flew to the phone and she pressed it to her ear, quickly dialing a number. "Sir, the personification of the United States of America needs immediate medical emergency. Yes, _the _Alfred F. Jones. Alright sir." She got off the phone and pressed a button at her desk. Three nurses flew into the room, a gurney in tow and Russia set the barely moving country on the gurney. The nurses strapped him down, and just in time. The clock struck nine oh three a.m. There was another resounding explosion. Alfred F. Jones fell into another series of spasms and jerks, a new slit identical to the first running right next to it. They were parallel lines. Twins.

Hours passed. They saw the news. A second plane had crashed. The towers were up in flames.

People were jumping.

They saw them, plummeting story after story, tossed around in the air like rag dolls, no control, limbs flailing. Tumbling through the air head over heels until they landed on the cold, unforgiving, concrete.

"Who would do this aru?" China wondered aloud. There was no answer. Nobody wanted to answer. Nobody _had _the answer. Sure, they laughed at him, made fun of him, called him useless, pathetic, told him they hoped he would just disappear, the world would be better off without him anyways. All because they didn't want him to know how _reliant _the world was on him. He was the lynch pin that held the world together in this era. If he were to so suddenly disappear, the world would more thank likely fall into another depression. They may have said that they hated him, but _nobody _had ever wished something like _this _upon him. Italy was a sobbing mess, hugging Germany like a lifeline. The German was too busy watching the news to bother pulling him off. Hours rolled by. The towers collapsed, burned to the ground.

And the death toll?

Two thousand nine hundred ninety six.

Two thousand nine hundred seventy seven of those people were innocent men and women, doing their job so that they could bring money back to the family's that waited back home.

Family's that would never see them again. Family's that they would never see again. No chance to say goodbye.

More time. Nobody knew how long they waited, but the once high sun was hovering above the horizon when a doctor called them. He didn't talk, he just walked in and motioned for them to follow him. They willingly obliged, following him into the hallway.

"I assume that you are the other countries, correct?" The doctor asked looking at his clipboard.

"Oui. 'ow is Amerique anyways?" France asked walking next to England. The doctor grimaced and kept walking, stopping in front of a door.

"You see, the attack on the twin towers has caused major blood loss. His throat was severely damaged and even though it will probably be healed by tomorrow, he shouldn't talk or eat anything solid for a week. It might take longer considering the stress of his job, but I'm sure the president knows and will give him some recovery time. We gave him a blood transfusion and gave him some heavy duty narcotics, so he's asleep right now. You can see him if you like." The doctor offered motioning to the door. "I must be off to treat the nine eleven victims. If he needs anything or if he wakes up, call one of the nurses and they'll be here." The doctor walked away, leaving a group of shocked countries to stand outside of America's room. Slowly, ever so slowly, England twisted the handle and stepped into the room.

America lay on the bed.

Absolutely motionless.

The rise and fall of his chest was slow and steady, his heart beat a constant _beep... beep... beep _and the powerful nation looked so _sickly_. So pale. So _weak. _He looked everything that he was not. England tried to make himself believe that it wasn't Alfred in that bed. It was someone else. Some stranger that _looked _like Alfred. Yeah, that was it. His hopes were dashed when he heard a whimper and a shadow slicked towards the man in the bed that _certainly was not Alfred_ and sat down in the chair next to him, gripping his hand tightly. Suddenly the shadow took form and they saw a man. He was identical to America but you could still see the difference. Softer jaw line. Violet eyes. Longer, wavy hair. Who was he again? Kanara? Canadia? Canada. That's right. Canada. His brother. England found himself taking a seat in one of the chairs, slowly walking to sit down on the hard plastic. Time went by. The others left with promises to be back tomorrow. Canada stayed. He was his brother after all. England did not. England left. He couldn't stand seeing him like this. The country he had raised, reduced to _that. _He shuddered violently, going into auto pilot as he returned to the hotel all of the countries were staying at. He walked to his room, past France who watched him with sad eyes, past Italy who was bawling into Germany's chest, past Japan, who he saw through the door open only a crack, praying on his knees.

He made it to his hotel room.

He slid in the key card.

He opened the door.

He locked the door behind him.

He collapsed on his bed.

He couldn't find it in himself to cry. No, that's not what America would have wanted. He would have assured him that he was the hero and that he _would_ make it through this. He'd swear to god to hunt down whoever did this and kill them himself for doing something so _terrible _to his country. To him. But most of all to his people. England found himself in a restless sleep, nightmares coming and going as they pleased.

Alfred flat lined. The United States was no more.

Gasping and screaming England had woken up with a startled jolt, sitting bolt upright in his bed. No. No. It was just a dream. Alfred was alive. In the hospital. Yes, he would be better soon. England heaved a sigh, resting his head on his knees as a broken sob tumbled past his lips. Why the hell was _he_ crying? He wasn't the one who just lost over three thousand citizens was he? He wasn't the one whose neck had been slit because of a terrorist attack. He didn't register France throwing the door open and sitting down beside him, pulling him close and rubbing his back soothingly as he whispered in French. Tonight would be a long night.

* * *

**A/N: So this is part one of a nine eleven commemorative fic. It'll probably be about six chapters long, maybe longer. Nine eleven directly affected my family. I lost two uncles and three cousins that day, exactly eight days before I was born. I hope that nothing similar will happen ever again. God Bless America.**


End file.
